Here, drink your liqueur," Henry said, tossing back her drink. "I carry it with me everywhere because it's the only kind of drink that Leo doesn't like, so there's a chance I'll still have some tomorrow.

I would prefer not to throw myself on a funeral pyre. Please come back to me.

You don't know how easy death is. It's - it's like a door. A person simply walks through it, and she's lost to you forever.

One more time, she promised herself. That wasn't too trollopy. She wouldn't be too trollopy. But when they actually got to the guardhouse? Trollopy.

He wanted to grow old with her, or not grow old at all.

I don't want to have to earn love by giving up my ability to make decisions that determine how I live.

Some say writing is its own reward. I write for money, but writing for money is not so bad, especially when that writing brings you joy.